Pawns to King's Level
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Demons find a new way to try to coerce Sam into taking his place as their leader...using Dean, of course.


_First appeared in _A Small Circle of Friends 14 _(2009), from Neon Rainbow Press_  
_Based on the Stargate: Atlantis episode "Common Ground"_  
_And written well before "The Curious Case of Dean Winchester"_

_In loving memory of Diane  
_

**Pawns to King's Level**  
K Hanna Korossy

"So, you don't think it's ironic?"

"What, that we're tracking an energy-vampire a couple weeks after Gordon? Not particularly, no."

"C'mon, dude," Dean cast a glance at him as they walked, "first we're after blood-suckers; now we're after life-suckers. That's a little funny."

Sam sighed, the corner of his mouth turning up fractionally. "Right, just like when we go after one ghost and then, huh, what a coincidence, another ghost. It's hilarious, Dean. Can we hunt now?"

Dean shook his head as they reached the front door and he knelt down to pick the lock. "Man, what happened to that famous sense of humor of yours? Oh, wait…"

Sam rolled his eyes, making sure he kept one on the street around them. It was the middle of the night, but still, they were in the suburbs, neighbors all around, and the house had been the scene of a death just days before. "Are you done? 'Cause if I hear one more crack about sucking—"

"No, I'm good." They ducked easily under the police tape as the door swung open. Dean glanced back at him with a grin. "You gotta wonder a little, though, what else they drain out of—"

"Dean!"

"Yes, Dean," a new voice chimed in. "And Sam. Nice of you to join us."

It was like flipping a switch. Dean instantly brought his gun up and shifted to the balls of his feet, stance widening. Sam took it all in like breathing, also instantly alert, ready and wired for a fight.

There were only four of them, and they looked human. And relaxed, two lounging on the sofa, one leaning against the fireplace. Only the fourth, a well-built guy in his thirties, stood in the doorway of the living room in front of them, casually interested. But if the Winchesters had learned anything, especially in the months since the gate had been reopened, it was that looks were deceiving. And four people who got the drop on them probably weren't just _people_.

Especially when this smelled an awful lot like a trap.

"Christo," Dean snapped next to Sam.

Four sets of eyes went black.

Dean cursed under his breath, took a step back to Sam's side. Sam could feel his incipient panic under the calm façade, because Sam's mind was racing in its own terrified hamster wheel. There'd been absolutely no demonic fingerprints on this one, and they were unprepared: no devil's traps hidden, no escape plan worked out. Nothing but the small bottles of holy water they both always carried and a memorized exorcism that would take too long to work on the unrestrained possessed.

The lead demon smiled at them, continuing in that same deceptively benevolent voice. "Now that we know the playing field, why don't we get on with it?"

"Get on with what?" Dean asked, and behind his back, Sam saw him gesture to the door. _Save yourself_, and he didn't know if he was mad or touched. _No_, he shook his head fractionally when Dean's eyes shifted his way, and he saw his brother's jaw tighten. Tough.

"This," the demon answered, and smiled.

Sam felt his feet slide out from under him without warning. He yelped as he hit the ground, saw Dean moving toward him. The next second, they were on opposite sides of the room, Sam slamming to a halt in front of the older man by the fireplace, while Dean was smashed into the far wall by an unseen hand.

Sam barely had time to register the fear in Dean's eyes before a form moved between them. The fireplace demon, leaning over Sam with a smile identical to the head guy. He reached toward Sam, and Sam struggled uselessly to roll away, get up, do anything but lie there as a heavy hand settled across his neck, pressing almost gently.

Choking him. Not again.

Dean was yelling in the background. Well, at least they only seemed to be after Sam this time. It was a little bit of comfort, anyway. He'd been half expecting this ever since their old yellow-eyed friend had showed him his past and told him his future. And who knew, maybe if something happened to him, Dean's deal would—

And then Sam's body ran out of air, and it was all desperation and terror and a futile fight to live before he sank into black.

00000

He woke tied to a chair. And how sad was it that he knew what that felt like, waking tied to a chair?

His first thought was _Gordon_, because they'd been here before, restraining each other on chairs, baiting, circling. But no, Gordon was dead: Sammy had killed him.

His second thought was _Sam_, and Dean felt a stab of guilt it hadn't been the first. Especially because the last time he'd seen Sam, his brother had been down, one of those black-eyed bastards strangling him. That cleared Dean's mind fast.

His head ached in the way that said someone had been using him as a tackling dummy again, but Dean lifted it despite the pain, screwing his eyes open to take in the poorly lit, decently sized room. It was unfurnished, clearly not where he'd been knocked out, probably not even the same house. There were no windows, and the place smelled bad. Like fish left inside a warm car. It made his nose twitch.

One glance around in the two hundred degrees or so he could manage to turn his head was enough to assure him Sam wasn't there, and Dean's sixth sense about his brother said he wasn't lurking in the remaining one-sixty, either. In fact, Dean didn't believe he was even in the building, and had no idea if that was good news or bad, except this clearly wasn't Kansas anymore—metaphorically speaking—and that made him really nervous. Their own Kansas: Sam, the car, their twisted version of home and normalcy, felt a long way away, in fact, and Dean longed for it with surprising wistfulness. Probably getting sentimental in his last few months.

Or just…really, really worried about Sam.

Wasn't much point now in trying to keep quiet, though, and he had nothing to lose. Dean hollered "Sam!" and waited in the silence, not even breathing.

No answer. Not a sound.

Dean wriggled against his bonds, but just as his initial instincts had told him, there was no give to the ropes. They'd been expertly tied, hands and ankles apart, ropes away from his fingers, snug enough to allow no movement but not so much as to impair circulation. Someone was being unusually careful not to harm him more than necessary, and that was all kinds of worrisome right there. But Sam…

"SAM!" he bellowed again at the distant door, the only break in the grey walls. Then, frustration mounting, "Hey, I'm right here, you sons of—"

The door swung open, and Dean's mouth snapped shut, adrenaline mixing fear and anticipation into his blood. If it was Sam, or news of Sam, he could take his own fate far more easily.

But Sam wasn't with the small entourage that entered. It was the four from the house again, or… No, wait. There were four figures, but only three of them were the demons of before. The older guy, the one who'd attacked Sam, was missing, and Dean's stomach lurched. Then dropped again as he realized who the fourth figure was. He'd never seen one in person, but the long white hair, pale skin, unnaturally blue eyes, and thin build he recognized from the descriptions.

"So," he said flatly. "You're a sucker, after all." His eyes slid over to the head demon. "And you brought an energy-vamp with you, too."

"Clever," the head demon said, unimpressed. "You Winchesters are so alike. Even in Hell, your father was always mouthing off. In between the screaming."

Dean just glared at him, unwilling to give this…_thing _the satisfaction of a reaction, but his eyes promised murder. Slow and agonizing, with a hellfire chaser.

"Not that it won't provide an even better show for your brother. So, by all means, keep going."

Dean hesitated. Then, unable to resist, demanded, "Where's Sam?"

The four had stopped in front of him, the sucker flanked by the pair of demons—they almost looked like a teen couple except for the inky eyes—behind the head demon. Who cocked his head, eyeing Dean with almost interest. "Would you believe me if I said we let him go?"

"No."

"Well, I guess there's no point in you asking, then, is there? But we did, left him right where we found him. You see," it bent closer to Dean, who turned his head away, "we don't want to hurt him. We just want to…convince him what he needs to do. And you're going to help us."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that'll be a cold day in Hell."

The demon smiled at him. "Hell can be very, very cold," it said, then straightened and stepped back. "And I wasn't asking."

The demon girl prodded the sucker, which shuffled forward toward Dean, blue eyes blank, and reached for Dean's restrained hands.

Turned out, the demon was right about Hell being cold.

00000

Sam jolted awake, then instantly winced, raising a hand to his sore throat. The chain of bruises under his chin was warm and tender, but he didn't seem to be injured anywhere else. Four demons, he and Dean at their mercy, and all they wanted was to knock them out for a while? Knock _him _out, and Sam shot upright.

"Dean!"

The room was empty, as silent as the ownerless house they had expected to break into. Before they'd walked into a trap.

Sam scrambled to his feet, head darting around despite its ache. Definitely a trap: the demons had known who they were, had been just waiting. But they'd only wanted Dean? What sense did that make? Sam was supposed to be the abdicated leader of their stupid army, now Enemy Number One. Why take Dean and not him?

He staggered forward on legs that held him more sure with every step, listening, looking, grasping walls and furniture, searching. "Dean! Answer me!"

But there was no one there. Sam's head throbbed with frantic fear for his brother, vision wavering.

Flickering. Headache building.

Not just fear. A vision.

Sam dropped down onto the sofa, fingers digging into his temples. "No, no, no," he chanted under his breath. This wasn't happening; he was done with those abilities now that Azazel was dead. They couldn't come back, especially not now, not while Dean was missing and Sam was alone. He willed it to stop.

It shoved back, plowing into his brain like a Mack truck.

_Dean was in agony._

_His teeth were locked together, but his eyes were pressed shut, his head thrown back, his neck taut. Sam could hear his scream, even if in silence._

"_Hello, Sam." _

_Visions didn't usually come with narrators. _

"_Oh, this isn't your ordinary vision. Call it…accepting a collect call. And we're the ones doing the collecting."_

_The frame of his vision pulled back, revealing that Dean was tied to a chair, body arched like a bow in the restraints. And leaning over him was a long, white-haired figure, hands pressed flat to Dean's, head also tilted back. But where Dean's face showed suffering, the being—creature—showed only bliss. _

"_It's very simple, Sam. You have a destiny, a mantle of leadership to take on. Accept it, and your brother is free. Deny it, and every last bit of his life will be drained from him. And I guarantee, it will not be pleasant." _

_Someone tugged at the creature, the life-sucker, off screen, and it let Dean go, stepping back. Dean instantly slumped in the chair, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hair. His hands were curled into bloodless fists, but that was the only sign of fight left in him. _

"_It is your choice. I will 'call' again in three hours if I do not hear from you first. If you make up your mind before then, there is a number programmed into your phone. I figure your brother will last perhaps four more feedings…but you don't want to wait that long, trust me." _

_Dean's head rolled in near unconsciousness._

_It was the last thing Sam saw before everything cut to black._

White. Fireworks.

Sam groaned, tipping himself forward and pushing up, hand still clamped to his head.

It fell away as he recalled what he'd seen.

Sam yanked out his phone and scrolled down his list of contacts. He blinked when he saw the listing for "Demon," with a Pittsburgh area code, for what that was worth. A well of near-hysterical laughter bubbled from him at the thought of how funny Dean would think that one, the jokes his brother would make about Pitt and it being only fitting.

The humor caught in his swollen throat, suffocating.

Sam scanned his list of contacts, vision wavering, until he got to Bobby, and pushed Dial.

The demons were right: there was a fight coming. But Sam intended to bring his own army.

00000

Well. Being sucked on sucked. By any kind of sucker, blood or energy. Big surprise there.

Dean breathed a laugh, then tried lifting his head, again. He made it halfway this time, at least able to prop his cheek against his shoulder. Wasn't much, but, hey, any change of scenery.

The room was still drab and empty. Maybe a little dimmer than before, or maybe that was his eyes. It dawned on him there had to be a window or something behind him, some source of light to keep the room from pitch blackness and to cast those lengthening shadows. But right now, Dean didn't even have the energy to try to crane his head to look, let alone do anything to take advantage of it.

Life-suckers didn't always drain their victims. Dean remembered Sam saying that, something about how some vics were found old and wrinkled but alive, as if they'd had years drained from them instead of strength. The corpses were always shriveled husks, bodies of centenarians instead of the teens and twentysomethings they'd been the day before. The Winchesters had carried out their investigation the guise of the CDC, because no human murderer could match that MO.

It seemed like the sucker had only snacked on him, though, instead of taking a full meal. What Dean could see of his hands, they still looked normal if a little stiff, and he didn't feel like a grandpa. Just…really, really weak and tired, and thoroughly sick of being used as a demon plaything. Come on, didn't these guys get their kicks from anything non-Winchester related? Movies, rock climbing, knitting? They'd probably like Nicholson…

Something moved in the shadows.

The little burst of anxiety gave him enough of a push to raise his head, and Dean squinted into the far corner. "Someone there?" His voice sounded deeper, more raw. More like Dad's. "Sam?" Dean asked desperately.

White fluttered in the gray light. "No."

The voice was soft, sibilant, like a slither of air. Not human, and Dean's spine crawled. "You. You're the sucker."

"No name."

Dean glared fruitlessly in its direction. "Yeah, well, I got plenty of names for you."

There was a slurry of movement, then the pale figure stepped out into the light, seeming to cringe a little in it. "Only hungry."

Great, and they'd left that thing in here with him. This just got better and better. "Right," Dean spat. "But every time you get a Big Mac-attack, you kill someone."

The sucker tilted its head. "You kill."

"Evil things like you, not innocent people!"

"Not evil." It sounded almost like it sighed. "Not inn-o-cent."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Make up your mind, freak—you can't be both."

It shuffled closer, and Dean's muscles stiffened in automatic reaction. It was still a good ten feet away, but Dean could see its face now, the almost neon blue eyes. It reminded him of a djinn's eyes, actually, and that monster had drained its victims dry, too. Maybe they were cousins.

"You don't want me to call you evil?" Dean asked. "Come here and untie me. Then I might start believing you're switching teams."

The sucker shrank back. "No. Devils hurt."

Dean frowned. "What devils? You mean those black-eyed skanks out there? They're not devils—they're barely even scary. Come on," he shook his arm, which took more out of him than he was willing to admit. "Get me out of here and nobody'll hurt you again, okay?" After Dean toasted the thing, anyway.

But the sucker was in retreat, looking oddly like a chastened child. "No. Hurt."

Dean grimaced. "Fine. Guess we'll just wait for the cavalry then. You're not gonna like it when he gets here, though. Sam's got kind of a thing against suckers these days."

"Sam. Bro-ther?"

Dean stilled. "Yeah, my brother. What about it?"

The sucker unexpectedly whimpered, pressing itself back into the dim corner. "Evil. Give in. Always give in. Always devils win."

"Yeah, well, not this time," Dean snapped. "You don't know Sam."

Then again, these days he wasn't sure he always did, either. And if the demons were using Dean as a bargaining chip…

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean murmured under his breath, and this time he wasn't worried for just himself.

00000

They darted forward in coordination, sticking to cover. Sam made it to the door first, waiting until first Bobby, then Jeff and Aaron, a new guy he didn't know, got into position. There hadn't been a lot of time to muster forces.

A quick hand gesture, and they burst into the building in tandem.

There was an unearthly howl inside, three people with tar-black eyes startling and scurrying away like roaches. Sam put a blast of rock salt in the chest of one, then whipped the shotgun around to stop another from getting away. Bobby put the third down with one shot, and Jeff and Aaron were already laying out the trap-painted tarp on the floor, rolling bodies onto it.

Sam moved to help, then jerked to a stop, gaze darting across the three blank faces.

Bobby stopped mid-drag of a fortysomething guy to stare up at him. "What's the matter?"

"It's not them," Sam said numbly.

Bobby straightened, shoved his hat back. "You sure? Maybe they just picked up new hosts."

Sam shook his head, his chest feeling too tight to talk. He spun away, headed back toward the door. Behind him, Jeff started the exorcism.

Other steps hurried after Sam, and Bobby swung around in front of him at the door. "Sam—"

"It's almost time again, Bobby, and we're spinning our wheels here!"

"I'm thinking the families of those three people back there won't see it that way."

Sam narrowed his eyes at his old friend. "Don't you give me that—we've been going after these things day and night, weeks when I should've been looking for a way to break Dean's deal, Dean's _last weeks. _And now he's getting even that taken away by…" His jaw worked, but no adequate words would come, and he turned away, straining to get control of himself.

Bobby's voice softened. "And we'll find him, Sam. We followed a credible lead, signs of demonic activity—this wasn't exactly a waste of time. We'll just keep looking."

"Meanwhile, they're draining Dean _dry, _Bobby. I saw him, the way he looked…" Sam's vision went blurry, and he swiped a hand over his eyes.

"And…you're sure this…vision has nothing to do with your abilities?" Bobby asked carefully.

Sam swung around to glower at him.

"Okay, okay, just asking. Might've given us a clue what was happening, but…" Bobby scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Give us a few minutes to clean up here, then we'll sit down and figure out a plan, all right?" At Sam's lack of response, Bobby grabbed his arm, gave it a little shake. "Listen to me, Sam—it sounds like they don't just want to kill Dean, and as long as he's alive, we can find him and fix this. You hearin' me? Just hang in there, because you're the only lead on him we've got right now."

The only link. As if he needed reminding. Sam exhaled, nodded, rubbing at his forehead.

"Okay, just sit tight. I'll be right back."

Without Bobby there as distraction, however, without anything to _do, _any strategies to plan, all he could think about was Dean writhing, while the creature sucked his life away. It was a bolt of physical pain, and as Sam massaged his temple, another followed.

Sam took a sharp breath. Oh, God. It was time.

00000

"It's time."

Dean glowered at the four figures circling him, eyes nailed to the head demon but peripherally very aware of the life-sucker on his right. "So this is your big plan?" he said dryly. "You drain me dry, and Sam, what, caves to keep you from doing the same thing to him? Well, I got news for you, pal—all killing me is gonna do is to make sure Sam hunts down every last one of you and punts you back to Hell, permanently."

The demon leaned forward, a small smile on its lips. "We're not going to kill you. And your brother will…_cave_…to save _you _from this, not himself."

Dean's eyebrows drew together, uncertainty edging fear. What the…?

A careless shrug. "Of course, by then you might be the _considerably_ older brother, but it's up to Sam how long this goes on. He can stop it at any time."

"Wait." Dean shook his head a little, trying to clear it. "You telling me Sam knows what you're doing?"

"Oh, your brother more than knows. He has a front-row seat."

Oh, _Hell. _Literally. They had said something about putting on a show for Sam, but Dean had figured that was just typical demon posturing. But if Sam was watching this, seeing this… Dean struggled against his bonds with fresh futility, eyes sweeping the area around him, looking for his hidden brother, a camera, something to talk to. "Sam! Sammy, you listen to me, you don't give in to them no matter what, you hear me? You don't—"

He barely heard the demon's laugh, his voice rising in pitch as the sucker shuffled forward. Dean tried to curl his hands back, tip the chair, anything to get away from the papery pale limbs reaching for him.

And then he didn't know anything else but the pain.

It felt like he was being ripped in two. Like his very cells were being torn asunder, life seeping out of him like blood. His heart beat in agony, his brain was frying, his skin too hot. There was no breath to even scream.

It went on and on, synapses sparking and dying. Déjà vu to when he was electrocuted, probably a sneak peek at what Hell would be like. Bits of his past flickered through Dean's head, but it was his family's, not his own: Mom's voice, Dad's grasp of his shoulder, Sam's everything. _Sam, Sam, Sam… _

And then he lost even that to the torment.

He wasn't sure when it ended, only came aware slowly, in snatches. There was the low murmur of an amused-sounding voice, the soft slip of movement. Every heartbeat rippled pain through his body, every breath, and his muscles twitched uncontrollably. Dean couldn't even move a finger, helpless, trapped where he sat, involuntary tears dripping from his hanging head.

Rolling down his sleeve toward hands that were age-spotted and thin.

Sam was seeing him like this. He was being used against Sam like this.

_Damn you all_, his mind bitterly eked out, meaning every word. And then, the last of his strength gone, Dean drifted off into the relief of darkness.

00000

"Sam. Sam!"

Sam almost slammed into the bridge of Bobby's nose, he whiplashed up so suddenly. "Bobby?" He frowned, then suddenly stiffened again as the vision came back to him. He grabbed at the older man's arms where they held his shoulders. "Bobby!"

"Take it easy, Sam—looks like you blacked out there a minute. You all right?"

"No." Sam sucked in a breath, absently noticing he was shaking, his fingers jerking over Bobby's shirt. "No. God, Dean!"

"Another vision," Bobby realized, sitting back on his heels but not letting go of Sam's shoulders. "Same thing as before?"

Sam shook his head, curling forward a little. He could feel the tears on his cheeks as his face crumpled, but all he could see was the terror and torture in Dean's face, the straining, weakening body, the bleeding away of life. "No, it's…it was worse. Bobby, they're killing him." Sam blinked up at the hunter, eyes burning fresh. "They drained more from him—he looks…" He swallowed, remembering the deepened lines, the silvering hair. Clawing, bony fingers, and pinched lips forming his name over and over. "He looks older than Dad," he whispered.

Bobby's eyes crinkled, mirroring Sam's pain. "Dean's strong, Sam. He'll hold—"

"No." Sam wrenched himself free of the man's grip, pushing up on coltish legs. "No, we can't— I can't let them keep doing this, Bobby. It has to end, now."

"How?" Bobby asked narrowly, also rising to his feet. "By you giving them what they want? Agreeing to lead this demon army of theirs? You're not seriously considering—"

"Saving Dean's life?" Sam said calmly. He nodded once, pulling out his cell phone. "Watch me."

"And what about after? How's Dean gonna take it when he finds out you went and did what he always fought to save you from? Because of _him? _Who's going to save him from that, huh?"

"I don't need saving from this, Bobby—if they want someone to give the orders, fine, I'll give them some orders." Sam looked down at the cell, finger poised.

"You really think they'll just let you go after?" Bobby asked incredulously. "That you'll walk away from this untainted? Boy, you're talking about becoming what you _hunt_, what Dean hunts."

Sam faltered, fingers white on the phone.

Bobby closed his own grip around them, gentle but firm. "Sam, I'm gonna tell you what Dean would if he were here: don't give up on him. This ain't over yet, and if you give them what they want now, you're just dooming the both of ya. Now, pull your head together, stop thinking about what's happened, and start thinking about what we can do to keep it from happening again. You hear me?"

_…no matter what, you hear me?_

He'd missed the beginning of what Dean had been trying to tell him, but the end flashed through Sam's head, and he knew what the message must have been. _Find another way. Be strong, Sammy. Don't give in._

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Not fair, man. _Sam shook his head.

_ Life's not fair. _He could clearly hear Dean's voice in his head, amused, sympathetic. _Suck it up, dude. _

"Sam?" Bobby's cautious voice.

Sam swallowed, wiped his arm across his face, and opened his eyes. He met Bobby's concerned gaze and nodded. "Yeah, all right. Let's find another way."

00000

Getting old was no fun.

Of course, getting old in a couple of hours was probably a little harder on the average person than the regular way, but still. The fishy smell was stronger than ever, but his vision refused to clear, his hearing was iffy, and his skin felt oversensitive and loose. But his hands… Dean smirked bitterly. If he had a face to match, he'd soon be switching from hitting on young, hot things, to talking up their grandmothers. And if that didn't just suck right there…

Speaking of sucking, movement in the corner drew Dean's attention back to his more serious plight, namely that of his roommate. It took all he had to pull his head up on his weak neck, but no way was he giving his executioner the satisfaction of seeing Dean Winchester beaten. Not until they pulled the thing away from his lifeless body, so, not for a few more hours.

The light from outside was dimming, and it cast the creature in sickly shades of grey, but its blue eyes were nearly glowing. Probably with energy gained from him, and Dean watched it coldly as it slid closer. "What do you…want, freak?" he rasped.

"Brother. No come."

Dean tried to pull in a deep breath, but it just made him cough. "Oh, he's…coming. Might not…get here in time for…the meal, but…he'll bring dessert."

The sucker made a soft snuffling sound Dean couldn't decipher and didn't really care to try. "Devils win."

"Not this time." Dean's breath caught as pain fluttered through his wasting limbs.

The creature cocked its head, studying him. "Hurt?"

Dean snorted softly. "Yeah, that…happens when you're…the main course."

Those unnaturally blue eyes watched him. "I…end?"

It took him a moment to realize what it was offering, but then Dean recoiled. "No! No way, you just…stay 'way from me. Freak," he added on a gasp as the exertion seemed to suck his air away. Geez, did all old people find it this hard just to breathe? He was gaining a whole new respect for golden-agers.  
The sucker was still hovering a few feet away, though, watching him with something Dean could have sworn was puzzlement. As long as it wasn't hunger, he was fine with that, but the unblinking gaze was unnerving.

"'F you feel so sorry for me…why don't you do something 'bout it?"

It shifted from foot-to-foot, a surprisingly human gesture. "What?"

"I don't know…Get us out of here? Feed on…one of them next time?"

The sucker shrank back. "Hurt."

Dean scoffed a laugh. "Huh, yeah, we wouldn't want that." He rolled his head in a loose shake; what was he thinking? Like a life-sucking freak of nature would risk its life for Dean's.

The door rattled, and the creature quickly hurried back to its corner. Dean just lifted his chin higher, trying to keep it steady despite the bolt of pure fear running through him. He wasn't sure he could survive another feeding, and if Sam was watching, Dean could only imagine what it was doing to his brother, too. If Sam snapped…well, didn't really matter what happened with Dean then, did it? And even if Sam found him, what would Dean's last few months be like; wheelchairs and baby food and adult diapers? Dean felt the well of bitter irony. So much for not making it to old age.

The demon was alone this time; apparently, Dean wasn't much of a threat anymore. He couldn't argue that one. Still, he gave the hellspawn his best glare, hoping it came off more Clint Eastwood than Andy Griffith. "Miss me?"

"Apparently, your brother doesn't. He hasn't called." The black eyes narrowed in displeasure. "A few more feedings, and we'll have to find another lure for him. Perhaps that old hunter you work with. Or the girl he sometimes calls late at night. How many will it take to break him, hmm?"

Dean struggled to keep his poker face, because his rage was weakening fast into despair. He'd always told himself Sam was strong, that he could go on without Dean if he had to. He'd staked his soul on it, in fact. But not alone. Sam needed people, more than Dean did, and he'd counted on Bobby being there for his little brother, on Ellen and Jefferson and Sarah Blake and the few others they called friends, stepping into the gap and helping him go on. If Sam lost those he loved, too, though… Who could survive that? The darkness would win. No one was that strong, not even Sam.

Dean's mind, dizzy and dim, cast desperately for an alternative. Escape was impossible. The demon controlled all communication with Sam, not like Dean could have told him where he was.

Huh. Except…

"But we'll give him one more chance," the demon was saying, smug smile in place. "Perhaps he just needs a little more persuasion."

"You're never turning him," Dean said, voice shaking but stronger than before. He'd always been able to tap hidden reserves for Sam. He blinked rapidly. "You do this and you just guarantee he'll never join you."

"We'll see," the demon said pleasantly. He stepped aside, motioned the sucker forward. "Take as much as you can without killing him."

Dean forced his gaze to remain on the bright blue one as the creature stepped in front of him. It almost looked like…regret shining in the depths, but that had to just be Dean slipping. He clenched his jaw as the thing reached for his hands.

But nothing could prepare him for the torment.

00000

In the meager privacy of the motel bathroom, Sam sobbed.

He'd locked himself in as soon as he'd felt the first stirrings of the vision, just shoved his phone at Bobby and given the older man an anguished look, then gone. This was something he had to face alone, something he wanted no one else to bear witness to.

It had been worse than even he'd imagined.

He would've thought Dean dead when it was over, except for the uneven rise and fall of the thin chest, but there wasn't much left of him regardless. His brother's muscle mass had melted away, skin stretching over sharp bones, hanging in folds. His hair was thin and snow white, and his eyes… That was what had broken Sam's self-control. Watching the hazel fade to dun-brown, then a cataracted milky white, had been the last straw. It was almost a relief when Dean had collapsed into the chair, his wrinkled, unfamiliar face dropping out of sight.

They were too late. Sam's chest only grew tighter from the tears. No matter what they did, no matter how quickly they did it, they would be too late now. Dean might not even have the months of his deal left, his body worn out and failing. The demon had promised Sam one more feeding would be the last, but that would be a mercy.

Sam bowed his head, heart breaking under the weight. Dean was _dying_.

And yet, he'd remained defiant as the demon taunted him and the sucker bore down on him. Sam's mouth twisted into a shaky smile, thinking about it. It was just so…Dean, eyes promising vengeance even facing death, blinking hard against…the…

Sam's breath hiccupped, his head coming up.

Blinking. Dean had been blinking, hard, fast. Rhythmically. Like…code.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, replaying the beginning of his vision. Two quick, one long, and another quick. Two quick. Three quick. Their Dad had taught them Morse Code, one of the few things Sam had enjoyed learning, and thanked God for it now. Sam fumbled in his pocket for a pen and his little notebook. F, and I, S…H. F, I…okay, just repeating. F-I-S-H.

Fish? Dean was dying, and his final message was "fish"?

Sam breathed a laugh. Trust Dean to come up with a clue like that. A Biblical reference, or Pink Floyd? Douglas Adams? Sam frowned, then stuck the notebook back in his pocket, splashed some water on his face, and looked in the mirror and watched his hollow-eyed reflection take a breath. While Dean was still alive, giving up wasn't an option. Even if, God help him, Sam would just be there so he didn't die alone.

He opened the door, not flinching as three pairs of sympathetic eyes swung toward him.

"I've got a lead."

00000

"You. Strong."

It was almost dark in the room, or maybe it was his eyes. Didn't really matter. Dean's thin, aching shoulders barely moved the fabric of his shirt when he shrugged. "Was." His voice came out thin and feeble.

The creature was moving closer again, but Dean didn't care much about that, either. Dying of old age kinda put the important things in perspective. Like focusing on staying alive as long as possible, hoping to see the person you cared about one last time.

"No want," the sucker said softly.

Dean wasn't sure what that meant but didn't bother trying to figure it out. "Tough."

More shifting. He swore, the thing was as restless as Sam at his angstiest. "Get out of…here?"

Dean breathed a laugh. It sounded alarmingly like a death rattle. "_Now_ you…wanna escape."

The thing crept closer. "I not…feed much. Not much as can. Still…strong."

Dean drew his brow together. He took a breath, then pulled his head back to his shoulders, turtle-like, so he could lever it up and squint at the blurry figure. "Seriously? You held back?" He snorted. "Hate to see what…full treatment woulda…" He coughed, dry and harsh, chest vibrating from the strain. His lungs felt like they were lined with lead. "Kinda late…dude…"

The sucker hissed, which was new. Before Dean had a chance to figure out what that meant, though, the door was being unlocked. His companion scuttled back.

This was it. Last call before Hell. And yeah, fear had his throat closed up almost to choking. But there was resignation, too, and a tiny bit of hope. Maybe dying early meant the deal was off, or that he could come back somehow, at least for the rest of his year. Maybe there was still some way to save Sam. Maybe there was something else Dean could do, because surviving in this withered shell wouldn't be living. He would've liked to see Sam again…but it was best Sam didn't see him. Whatever the demons were showing him was more than enough.

_I tried, Sammy, I did. _He blinked heavily, looked up with all his strength to meet his enemy face-to-face. _I didn't let them beat me. And you better not, either._

The demon smiled at him. Camera on.

Dean didn't blink this time; no code was needed here. Nothing but a steady look. _Love you, kiddo._

And then the demon screamed.

It took some squinting to see in the dim light, but Dean soon realized pale arms had wrapped around the possessed man's torso, pressing against his hands. The demon's head was thrown back, but no smoke was escaping its gaping mouth. No, instead it was…changing. Shifting.

Aging.

Dean stared with horrified fascination at the mirror of his fate, the whitening hair and hollowing face. Watched in astonishment as the demon gave a last brittle croak, then collapsed to the ground.

Dean's eyes skipped up from the prone figure, to the life-sucker standing behind it. And, crap, it was _grinning. _

"Son of a… Untie me," Dean barked, managing to push authority even into that reed-thin voice.

It was enough. The sucker hurried closer, and even as Dean flinched from its reaching hands, the only pain was from reviving circulation and rope burns. The creature untied his arms, bent to undo his ankles, then shuffled back uncertainly.

It took three tries, but Dean pushed himself up onto rickety, bowlegged legs half the thickness they used to be. Damned if he was going to hobble out of there leaning on the sucker, though, and so he hobbled forward on his own, breathing heavily.

Turned out adrenaline affected a ninety-eight-pound weakling body a lot more than his previous one. It would probably give him a heart attack before long, but for now, the burst of energy was just what he needed. Dean groaned as he sank down next to the desiccated demon, patting its pockets until he found—nice—his gun, then weakly pushed back to his feet.

"You know the way out?" he panted to the creature.

It nodded hesitantly.

"Show me."

Escape was a little anti-climactic. The wonder twins were a few rooms down, just sitting at a table. Dean shot one, while the sucker took care of the other, then came over and finished Dean's.

"Couldn't you feed off just the demon?" he asked breathily.

The sucker just stared at him.

Dean nodded. "Right." He should have felt bad for the victims, but he just didn't have the strength for it now. He wasn't sure he could have even gotten an exorcism out if he'd tried. "C'mon," he motioned vaguely to the creature, and tottered ahead.

The last demon was between them and the doorway.

The gun felt about fifty pounds in his arthritic hands, but Dean lifted it without hesitation. Same time as the demon, actually, but Dean stilled his trembling bones best he could, held his breath, and squeezed.

Its sharper reflexes should have won. Age, however didn't nullify training and experience. When the sucker suddenly hissed, the demon's shot went wild. Dean's, however, hit it straight between the eyes.

He took less than a minute for Dean's companion to drain.

Then they were outside.

His heart was beating too fast; Dean knew the feeling from after his electrocution and heart attack. Already he was dizzy and his extremities were going numb. It was the best he could do to fold neatly on the cement walkway by the door instead of falling flat on his face, and he closed his eyes to conserve what little strength he had left.

He heard the sucker kneel next to him, and oddly felt no fear. "Find my phone," Dean murmured. "Call m'brother. He'll—"

Even weak hearing couldn't miss the throaty purr of his baby approaching down the street.

Dean felt a smile skim his face. "Never mind."

"Brother?"

"Yup." Dean knew he should say more. Knew what Sam would think, what he'd do if he arrived to find the sucker kneeling next to Dean, what he'd fear. But Dean couldn't seem to find his tongue, nor the air in his lungs to push past his vocal chords. His failing heart thudded in his ears, and his left arm tingled.

He could barely hear the soft shift of sound, the creature murmuring. Felt the touch of its hands only as a whisper of movement: cool, dry, feathery.

Then the pain consumed him like fire.

And this time, Dean managed enough breath to scream.

00000

Turned out there were actually three concentrations of demonic activity near fishing docks or canneries, which in another place and time might have intrigued Sam. Now, all that mattered was that one of them was in Pennsylvania. It was a longshot, but he and Dean had always specialized in those.

Despite flooring the car the whole way there, however, they were still past the three-hour mark by the time they were in the right neighborhood. Sam had braced himself as best he could for the next vision, the last one, but nothing happened. Bobby kept cautiously glancing at him, and Sam gave increasingly agitated shrugs. Bad news or good—who knew with demons?

Then again, there had been a flutter of…something for a moment there, a feeling more than anything: warmth, love. Sam kinda doubted that was coming from the demons, though. He filed it away as just a passing thought of his brother.

The canning factory finally came into view, a massive L-shaped building. Sam banked the car against the curb and scrambled out, studying the place for any sign of occupation or where to go.

He was still standing there when he heard Dean scream.

Sam wasn't even consciously aware of following the sound. One minute he was by the car, the next he was sliding to a halt on the walkway leading up to a door, gun rising to train unerringly on the back he'd seen only in his visions. A figure bent over Dean, leaving only his sprawled legs visible from where Sam stood.

He swallowed, afraid of what was hidden behind the creature's bulk, but pumped the shotgun. It was loaded with buckshot and would fatally rip and tear at this distance. "Move away from him!" he bellowed.

The creature stiffened, shying to one side. Then backed away as Dean's legs shifted, pulled in.

And then Dean was standing, doing a little stumble-hop as he found his balance. One hand went up to the side of his face, the other against the wall for support. His smooth, twenty-eight-year-old hands and face. "Dude," he slurred, shaking his head.

Sam blinked, hand wobbling. He barely noticed Bobby slamming to a halt behind him. "Dean?" he faltered.

Dean rubbed at his forehead. "I'm…yeah, 's a rush, but I'm good." He squinted up. "Sam?"

Sam gulped. "Yeah. It's me. What's going on, Dean?"

The sucker uttered a soft sound, rising to its feet, and Sam's aim sharply followed it.

"No." Dean moved away from the wall to bar an arm across the creature's body, half standing in front of him. "Don't, Sam."

Sam stared at him, baffled, not lowering the gun. Maybe this had all been some kind of…trick? Just made him think Dean had aged? But…

His brother turned back to the creature. "How'd you…? Y'know what, never mind. Listen, uh…" He dropped his arm. "This doesn't make us even—you're not on my Christmas card list or anything, okay? We meet again, especially if you keep on snacking on people, and all bets are off."

The white stringy head nodded. "Yes. Under-stand." Its voice made Sam's skin itch.

"So, just, uh…" Dean swayed. "Just…" He blinked, frowning. "Sammy?" he murmured, and his eyes rolled back as his knees buckled.

Sam had already shoved his shotgun into Bobby's hands at the first stutter, and he lunged forward now to catch his brother. It was awkward, but he managed to snag an arm around Dean's torso, then wrapped the other around him, shoulder hitching to roll his brother's loose head inward against Sam's neck. Dean was completely limp against him.

He scowled up at the sucker. "What did you do to him?"

Its body twisted in what seemed almost a full-bodied attempt at denial. "Give back what take."

Sam's brows dropped in puzzlement. "You…you gave back what you took from him? You fixed it?"

"Yes." Electric blue eyes gazed at him unflinchingly.

Sam turned to gape at the other hunters.

Bobby huffed. "Don't look at me, kid. I didn't know they could do that, either."

Sam settled into a crouch, Dean lying in his arms. Sam could feel the steady puffs of breath against his open shirt collar, and, reaching tentatively down to Dean's wrist, felt a regular beat. Exhaustion, maybe, or strain. There were a lot of blanks to be filled in, but he knew his brother in every possible level of distress, and this was none of them.

Sam stared narrowly at the monster that had hurt Dean in some way he wasn't quite sure of, but that had maybe helped him, too. And that Dean had released.

"Sam?" That was Jeff, standing just behind Bobby with Aaron, frowning and waiting.

He grimaced. "Let him go." Sam had to grit his teeth to say it, and heard the weariness in his own voice. "But like Dean said," he addressed the thing, "we see you again, we even _hear_ a rumor about you preying on people, and I will hunt you down myself and _bury_ you."

The creature straightened, looking first at Sam, then gaze sliding over to Dean. Something in its look changed…something non-predatory. Too quick for Sam to make out, however, before the thing turned and blundered away into the night.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Sam whispered to his unconscious brother, then pressed the slack figure a little tighter, ducking his face down against Dean's hair. "Jerk."

Dean just sighed in his sleep.

It was answer enough.

00000

Waking to the rumble of the car's engine, the muted vibration under his body, was so natural, it took a few moments to realize how unnatural it was this time.

Still, it was his car, his brother in the driver's seat if the quiet strains of Kansas—Sam's favorite of Dean's motley tape collection—was any sign, and so Dean was less worried than he probably should have been at not having a clue how he'd gotten there.

It took another set of moments to realize his eyes were open. It was just dark, midnight black above vinyl black, his face sandwiching their small travel pillow against the door. Dean took that as a good sign he was intact, and pressed his luck, turning over in the seat.

Groaning immediately because while his body obeyed him, it did with joints and muscles and bones and even—gross—_blood vessels_ aching and sparking. Dean immediately settled back down, screwing his eyes shut in the faint hope that if he played dead, the pain would give up and move on.

"Hold on, Dean," came Sam's quiet and steady voice, and some part of Dean wistfully wondered when his brother had started sounding like Dean's faint memories of their mother, knowing and soothing and parental. That last had always been _his _job.

The car rolled with a faint bump onto the shoulder, then the engine died. A hand closed warmly over the fist Dean hadn't even realized he was pressing the heel of to his forehead. A moment later, it peeled his fingers open, pushing a pair of oblong pills into his palm. Dean shoved them into his mouth, reached blindly for the water he knew would follow. He drained the whole bottle.

Then it was just controlled breathing, and waiting for his mind to accept that he wouldn't fall apart if he moved again and for the pills to kick in. Sam's hand rested on his wrist as if wanting to keep him from jumping up and running away, like that was going to happen. Opening his eyes to stare at his brother's bloodshot gaze was achievement enough.

"I have so had better days."

Sam's face cracked into a smile, then a near-laugh, head shaking lightly. The fingers on Dean's wrist kneaded his sensitive skin. "Y'all right?"

Dean pushed himself up a little higher in the seat, the blanket tucked around him sliding down as he groaned again, more from lingering pain than new. "What're my choices?"

"Yes or no."

"Will 'yes' make you let go of my hand?"

Sam snorted and drew his arm back, draping it over the steering wheel as he sat sideways facing Dean. "There's a sandwich and a piece of pie for you in the back if you want it. Bobby thought you might need to restore some of your energy after…" He trailed off uncertainly.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Geezering it? Yeah, maybe later." Actually, he was starving, but eating seemed like way too much effort just then. Which was probably the point, but—

"You're really all right?"

There. There he was, Sammy peering out from all the layers of adult, responsible Sam, uncertain and worried and Dean's little brother.

And as much as he appreciated in-charge and kick-ass Sam, as much as he was even counting on that side of his brother to get him through what was to come, some part of Dean was relieved to know he was still needed. That he still had a job.

"Nothing forty-eight hours of sleep, _several _pieces of pie, and the love of a naughty woman won't cure," Dean quipped, smirking.

Sam looked pained, but his shoulders came down at least a full inch, eyes not quite so desperate, so, points for that. "What…even happened, Dean? I mean, first you look like you could be Grandpa Winchester's older brother, then everything's back to normal? And letting the sucker go…?"

"You remember Grandpa Winchester?" Dean asked in surprise.

"A little," Sam said, almost defensive. "Dude, don't change the subject."

It took more effort than it should've to even remember the subject. Dean had about as many questions for Sam as Sam seemed to for him, not the least of which was what had happened to Bobby and the others he thought he remembered seeing, how Sam had been able to witness what had been happening to Dean, what had happened to old Blue Eyes and, oh yeah, the whole Sam as captain of the demon army thing. But all of that seemed far too much to even think about right now. "Forty-eight hours of sleep and pie first, Sammy, all right?" he murmured. "Then we can do the Q&A." At Sam's hesitation, Dean sighed. "I'm okay, really. Sore all over and with a whole new appreciation of an unenlarged prostate, but I'm good."

Sam stared at him, then, slowly nodding, looked away out through the windshield. He finally took a breath. "I'm sorry."

Dean didn't even need to ask what they were talking about because it would have been exactly what he would've been obsessing over if the tables had been turned. Minus Sam's dewy-eyed emo look. Dean had just really hoped to get at least a few of those hours of sleep in before they went here. He rolled his head tiredly against the seat back. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Sam. You do know you did the right thing, right?"

Sam turned back to him. "You do know how hard it was, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said soberly. "I do." Hardest lesson he'd ever learned in his life, as a matter of fact, and one he would have spared Sam if he could've. But his brother always would do the right thing; Dean was sure of it. He had to be.

Sam nodded again, swallowing. Then, thank God, he cleared his throat and settled back in the seat, turning the engine over. "Forty-eight hours of sleep?"

"And pie. And pancakes," Dean added quickly.

The Impala glided gently back on its way.

"Oh, and don't forget the naughty woman."

"_Dean."_

Slowly, so did they.

**The End**


End file.
